The Lies They Tell(3)
Tristan’s fair skin bore the touch of late June sunshine, but he’d grown thin since winter, still leanly muscled from the racquetball court and hours on the treadmill. Pearl knew the raised veins on his forearms, the faint frown line between his brows that hadn’t smoothed even with the arrival of his wingmen. She studied him whenever he came into the dining room, gripped by the physical and emotional recoil she—and most everyone else—felt in his presence. Alone. He was so alone, even in a room full of people, and maybe in that they shared some kinship.
“Iced coffee. Cream, sugar, shot of espresso. Don’t put too much ice in it.” The boy across from her sat tipped back in his chair, his white tank top contrasting against his deep brown skin, designer ball cap cocked at an angle. The club had done away with the gentlemen-must-wear-a-jacket-and-tie policy long before Pearl began working here, but there was still a certain dress code to be maintained, and Akil Malhotra was way below par. Pearl knew him by sight. Everybody knew the Indian kid who’d stolen the golf cart last summer.
The boy on the left was one of the Spencer grandchildren. He had the look: shaggily blond, deeply tanned from living at the family compound in North Carolina the rest of the year. He smiled at her, his gaze moving from her face to her breasts and back again. “Surprise me.” A faint southern accent, honeying every other word.
She blinked. “Very good.” One more quick glance at Tristan before she left.
She took orders at two more tables, meeting Reese’s gaze on her way to the kitchen; he was waiting on Mimi Montgomery-Hines and her friends, a tableful of elderly ladies who wore ropes of beads and big hats and bright lipstick, like an inverted version of a little girls’ dress-up tea party. Mimi adored Reese; the ma?tre d’s knew to seat her in section three without being told. Reese dropped Pearl a wink without breaking his stream of banter, and the sun-washed room rang with women’s laughter.
The bar was unmanned, so she grabbed a bottle of San Pellegrino from the cooler herself. Tristan always drank San Pellegrino. Someone’s fingers stole over the back of her neck, and she smiled, knowing it was Reese.
“Hiya, twinkle toes.” He went around the bar, took the lid off the blender, and dumped in ice, lime juice, triple sec, tequila.
“You’d better get out of there before Chas comes back.”
“Hey, he’s taking a whiz, my table needs drinks. You think I don’t know how to make a margarita?” He put a swizzle stick in his teeth, commenced chewing. “C’mon, c’mon, what do you need?”
“Iced coffee: cream, sugar, espresso. And I’ve got a guy who wants me to surprise him.”
“Slap on some pasties and come out singing, ‘Happy Birthday, Mr. President.’ Works every time.” He pulled the coffee pitcher out of the fridge and poured.
“You know from experience, huh.” She waited as he gave the blender a blast. “Isn’t it kind of early in the day for those?”
“Haskins. What have we learned about the rich?”
She sighed. “That it’s socially acceptable for them to drink more in a day than we do in a week.”
“Right. And since it’s now”—he checked an invisible watch—“just a hair past noon, Mimi and her cronies need a pick-me-up so they can make it till cocktail hour. Salt some glasses for me.”
Looking over her shoulder (you never knew when Meriwether might decide to do a walk-through, attending to her assistant managerial duties with grim fervor), she went to him and ran a lime wedge around the edge of the margarita glasses, dipping them in coarse salt. Being this close to Reese O’Shaughnessy was like standing beside high-tension power lines. She felt the energy thrumming through his wiry, not-quite-six-foot frame, and the abruptness of his movements, careless, sloppy, but still getting the job done. His auburn hair fell into his eyes, and she put her hands in her pockets to resist smoothing it back. Friends didn’t stroke each other’s hair. She was pretty sure that was in the manual somewhere.
“Who let the Prince of Darkness out?” Indigo’s low voice made Pearl turn. The girl leaned on the bar, one hip angled out, watching Tristan. She somehow managed to make the uniform of green-and-gold-striped tie, white blouse, and black slacks look like sex on wheels, as if it had been specifically tailored to her. Pearl’s size-small blouse hung loosely, and she had to wear a belt to keep the slacks from slipping down her nonexistent curves. “Looks like the posse’s back in town.” Indigo turned her cool gaze on Pearl. “Lucky you.”
Reese filled the glasses. “Bet he leaves a killer tip. Buh-bum-bum.” Indigo and Pearl made identical sounds of disgust. “Jesus. Warn me before you go all highbrow, girls. Indy, what do you need?”
“I’m still waiting for my surprise.” Pearl hoped she sounded light and breezy.
Reese mixed cola and grenadine, garnished with a maraschino cherry. “Roy Rogers. Unless he’s ninety, he’s never heard of it.”
Pearl loaded her tray and left, straining to hear what was said in her wake. Indigo: “Pitcher of mimosas and a sex on the beach. Just make it,” before Reese could say anything. Possibly a good sign. Those two were notoriously on-again, off-again, though they’d never been officially on, and if they were off now, Pearl doubted she’d be notified.
She set the glasses down in front of the boys. The Spencer grandson bit into the cherry immediately. Tristan didn’t glance up at her; he had his phone out. “Have you decided?” she said. Tristan continued with the touch screen, letting the other boys order before him. Whatever he chose, she knew he wouldn’t eat it.